Flagstaff
by newyorknewyork
Summary: When Sam runs away on Dean's watch, Dean is worried sick, and John of course is not happy.


**A/N**: This is my first foray into Supernatural fanfiction, and it's actually my first fanfiction in general in years, so I apologize if this doesn't flow too well or if anyone seems OOC. If that is the case, please feel free to let me know in a review so that I can write these characters better in the future! Also, I realize this is a scenario that's probably been written a bajillion times before, but I just had to get in my two bits worth. Oh, and this is set about 10 years prior to the pilot. Hope you enjoy!

**Disclaimer**: Do we still do disclaimers? Well, anyway, I'd like to disclaim any rights to this show and its characters, so there ya go.

* * *

Dean set the box of Lucky Charms on the table in front of Sam. "This is all we got."

"Great," Sam said, his tone deliberately soaked in sarcasm.

"Hey, watch your attitude, Sammy. These things are magically delicious." That goofy, five-year-old-kid smile plastered itself across Dean's face, as it always did when he thought he was funny.

Sam's eyebrows puckered in disbelief at Dean's stupid good mood. He shook his head and poured the cereal into his bowl. "Don't see why we can't just go out and get some real food, pizza or something." He went to the mini-fridge for the milk and then sat back down.

Dean eyed his brother as Sam sullenly added milk to his cereal and stirred it around with his spoon. "What's up with you?"

"When is Dad coming back?"

"He should be here in a couple days, tops," Dean said, sitting down opposite Sam at the table.

"Great," Sam said in the same tone as before.

Dean rolled his eyes. "What's your problem?" Sam always had something to whine about lately. "What's Dad done to you this time?"

Sam was silent, his eyes fixed on the rainbow-colored marshmallows in his bowl.

"Well, come on, speak up, what's the great injustice?"

"Dean…."

"Tell me, I wanna know."

Sam looked at his new textbooks sitting between himself and Dean on the table. "This is the third school I've been to this year. It's barely November."

"Yeah, me too. So what?" Dean wanted to get at the root of what was bugging Sam, but only so that he could toss it out and they could move on without Sam pouting all the damn time.

"So … every time I get even close to making something like a friend, _we_ have to _leave _again. Every time, even if I like my teachers and everything, we—."

"Isn't that better than if we hung around long enough for you to make some 'BFF' and _then_ we had to hit the road?"

"No," Sam said, dropping his spoon against the bowl so that it clanked. It was real silver, after all. "Better would be if we stayed it one friggin' place forever, so maybe I could have a real life and not be a freak for once."

Dean laughed at his brother's melodrama. "Come on, Sammy, it's not that bad. We were in Illinois all summer, and Oklahoma for two friggin' months. You know Dad does everything he does for a reason. He wouldn't do anything if he didn't have a damn good reason for it."

"What reason is that, Dean? What's the point of killing this monster and then that one?"

Dean started to feel some anger rising inside him. "You know what the point of it is."

"Yeah, sure," Sam said, leaning back in his chair. "But we chase and chase and chase and never seem to get anywhere. And he's so mean lately, everything I say makes him mad at me."

"Maybe that's 'cause you're always saying stupid shit like that, Sam."

Sam shook his long bangs into his eyes so he wouldn't have to look at his brother. "God, you're just like him. Why do you always have to side with him?"

"It's not about sides, it's about respect."

"Well, I don't see what he's done to earn any of that. All he does is disappear for weeks and get drunk the rest of the time—."

"Hey, _shut up_," Dean said, feeling truly angry. "Dad's a goddamn hero, all right? He may not be Superman like you thought, but he's real, and he does everything for everyone else. Who else is gonna save all these clueless people, huh? They're all stuck in the light like there's nothing bad out there at all…."

Dean's irate monologue sent Sam into his own head, where he imagined running away with nothing but a pack over his shoulder. He thought of what his life would be like without his father breathing down his neck all time, a life where he didn't have to carry a gun with him, or learn exorcisms, or leave salt lines behind him everywhere he went. He could leave, he thought, and it would be just like Oregon Trail. Set off on a quest in a covered wagon until he reached freedom.

"Sammy, hey, I'm talking to you."

Sam was brought out of his fantasy and back to the table with Dean and the Lucky Charms. "God, see, you sound just like him. '_I'm talking to you_,' come on."

"Shut up. Look, the point is, _some_one in this house has gotta respect Dad."

"But this isn't a house, Dean." Sam had to stop himself from slamming his fists on the table. "It's a two-room motel!"

Dean had had it. "Sam, stop it. Seriously, stop being such a friggin' child. You've known the truth of all this long enough that you're not allowed to cry into your cereal about it anymore, all right?"

Sam shook his head as if to shake Dean's words off of him. "Fuck you, anyway."

"Fuck — what?" Dean reached out, as if on reflex, and slapped Sam upside the head, if only lightly.

Truthfully, Dean had barely touched him, but Sam was still seething.

"Jesus, Sam, don't say shit like that. What if Dad heard you say that?"

Sam just shrugged, a scowl stuck on his face.

"Man, don't you get it? Why Dad's been like this lately? Why we left so quick, why he jumped so soon into another hunt that's hardly worth his time? You said it yourself — it's November. Another November, and we're still just chasing. Imagine how you'd feel if you were him."

Sam didn't want to imagine anything, so he didn't.

"All of this, all of what Dad does is for Mom. And if you disrespect him, you disrespect her."

Sam felt like Dean was saying all of this just to make him feel bad. It worked. But Sam still had his pride, and all he could muster up in response was a low-grade, "Sorry." He really was sorry, but he hated always being made to feel guilty for resenting his dad. Sam couldn't help how he felt. "All I'm saying is, I wish we could be normal people and have a real house. My friends are normal and they have houses."

Dean smirked. "I thought you didn't have any friends."

Sam shook his hair out of his eyes so he could look at his brother again. "Shut up."

Dean couldn't help but laugh a little. "I know this life ain't always what it's cracked up to be, Sammy. But you gotta learn to have some fun, stop dwelling on stuff all the time."

Sam felt a switch flip inside him. "Yeah, okay."

"Now, eat your dinner, please. It's getting soggy."

Sam took a bite of the cereal, finally.

Dean was satisfied that they'd moved past Sam's bratty moment. "I'm gonna go get a Coke, do you want one?"

"No."

"All right, lock the door behind me. I'll knock."

Dean put on John's jacket and walked to the door, Sam following him. Dean headed down the hallway toward the soda machine as he heard Sam shut the door behind him. Dean turned the corner at the end of the hall to get to the side of the motel where the vending machines were, put a couple quarters in the machine, and pressed _Coca-Cola_. He got his drink from the bottom of the machine and turned to go back the room, but stopped. He put another couple quarters in and pressed _Mr Pibb_. Sammy's drink came tumbling down and Dean grabbed it before heading back to the room.

Two short knocks, one long knock, another couple of short ones, and a few more that sounded like the guitar riff from Zeppelin's "Immigrant Song." Dean waited for Sam to open the door.

He didn't.

"Sammy?" A pause. "Sam!" Dean tried the doorknob and it opened right up. He rushed inside and looked around for his brother, who was long gone. He panicked for a moment, afraid of what could've happened to him. The banshee Dad was hunting — no, it couldn't be that. Dean checked the salt line in front of the window; it was untouched. Then a heavy weight hit him as the true panic set in.

Dean tossed the sodas onto the bed and went to Sam's drawer, which was half open. He noticed Sam's only duffel was gone, and the drawer was mostly empty. All that was left was a .45. Dean picked up the gun and sat on the floor, leaning against the bed. "Jesus, Sammy, you take your friggin' yo-yo and leave the gun?" Dean felt a flash of heat wash over him followed by a strike of cold and he snapped back into alertness. He'd only been gone a couple minutes and Sam could not have gotten more than half a block away on foot.

Dean stood, checked the clip, and put the gun in his back pocket, making sure his jacket covered it. He hurried out into the night screaming his brother's name.

"Sam! _Sam_! This isn't funny!" Dean ran all around the grounds of the motel yelling for Sam, until one patron stuck her head out and told him to keep it down. When Dean walked toward her, glowering, she was quick to step back into her room and slam the door closed.

Dean then went out into the road, looking both ways for any sight of Sam. Other than one car driving slowly by, the place was deserted. But Holbrook, Arizona was a middle-of-nowhere Indian town on Route 66 and Sam had to be close by. If only Dean had the Impala. Dean started down the road in the most obvious direction, still calling Sam's name.

After what felt like days of walking around in the dark with no sign of Sammy, Dean stopped and went into a gas station. He hoped maybe the cashier had seen Sam, but Dean realized he didn't even have a picture to show the guy. He went to the register anyway.

"Can I help you?"

"Yeah, do you know if a kid came in here in a little earlier? Kinda short, maybe a little on the chubby side, stupid mop-top hair?"

The cashier was an old man and took a few moments to think about his answer. "He a real smiley kinda kid, happy-go-lucky and whatnot?"

"Um." Dean paused. "Uh, not really."

The cashier looked at Dean quizzically. "Yeah, well, a kid who fits your description was in here a little over half an hour ago. Bought Funyuns or something, and soda."

Dean's eyes widened. "That's him, that's him, where did he go?"

The cashier kind of laughed and said, "Hell, I don't know. How should I know which way he went?"

Dean put his hands flat on the counter and looked the old man straight in the eye. "Come on, you gotta know something. Did he walk off by himself, was he with somebody?"

The old man looked Dean in the eye just as squarely. "Look, kid, I told you what I know. Now, are you gonna buy something or get outta my store?"

Dean exhaled roughly, nostrils flaring. "Thanks for nothin'." He walked out of the store and stood very still for a while, trying to keep his composure. He tried to use the poor lighting at the gas pumps to see further down the road, but there was still nothing. Sam was gone. Long gone. And John was on his way back any day now. "Goddamnit, Sam." He wiped a hand down his face, trying to make this day go away. He thought for a moment about going back into the store to ask for the phone, but he knew the old man wouldn't have it. He looked to his right and saw a pay phone. Disgusting.

Dean hesitantly picked up the phone and wiped it down on his shirt before putting it to his ear. He listened for the dial tone, put a quarter in and then dialed Sam's pager. When it beeped back at him, he punched in the number of his cell phone, which he'd left back at the motel. It was the best he could do, he figured. He hung up the phone and went back to the room.

XXX

Dean lay on the bed, the cell phone heavy on his chest. Sam hadn't called. Dean dialed Sam's pager again and again, but still, Sam refused to call him. Sam was such a little bitch sometimes. Sam had run away, surely, but the deafening silence of the motel room was leading Dean to imagine every terrible thing that could happen to his brother out there. That banshee could get him, or another Shrtiga, or a ghoul, or just a regular human being from this redneck small town.

Dean sat up. He had to figure out _some_thing, and _now_, before Dad got back. He considered calling Bobby, but he knew no matter how cool Bobby was, he'd call John immediately and make a big thing out of it, when it really wasn't such a big deal, Dean just needed some help. He picked up the phone and called Pastor Jim.

"You realize how late it is?"

"Pastor Jim, it's Dean Winchester."

Jim's voice went from relaxed and tired to urgent. "Are you all right?"

"Yeah, I'm fine."

"Is your dad all right?"

"Yeah, he's fine, listen it's Sam."

"What happened to him?"

"Nothing, he just — I was watching him because Dad's on a hunt, but he ran away and I went looking for him, but I don't have a car, so I just need some help. I need to find him before my dad gets back, but I'm not sure what—."

"When did he run off?"

"A few hours ago."

"Leave any kind of trail behind?"

"Not that I can tell, the only information I have is some old cashier at a gas station saw him earlier, but he couldn't tell me where he went."

"Well, heck, Dean, your brother could be half way to anywhere by now."

"H-how do you figure that?"

"Sam may be little, but he isn't dumb. If he wants to stay hid, he'll stay hid. He probably already caught a ride right out of whichever town you're in. It'll take a real quality hunter to find him."

"That's me, I can do it."

"Nah, Dean, you need your dad on this one. You call him."

"Pastor Jim, that ain't gonna work. My dad'll kill me for losing Sam. And he's finishing a job right now anyway."

"Okay, here. If a few days pass with no word from your dad or Sam, call me back and I'll find a hunter in your area to send to you. All right?"

"Yeah, thanks," Dean said, and hung up. _Shit_. He looked down at the phone in his hand and imagined how a conversation with his dad would go. _Yeah_, _right_. So he called Sam's pager again and went to bed.

XXX

Four days later and still no call from Sam. Dean had made it his mission to go as far as each road would take him in every which way while the sun was still up, and he still never saw so much as a glimmer of a sign of his brother. He knew Pastor Jim was right — Sam was smart and knew how to get out of town. Dean had hitched a ride himself, stopping in the next town over to ask around at all the gas stations and corner stores, but no one had seen Sam. Neither had anyone in the next town, or the town north of that one, or the town east of that one. The kid sure knew how to get lost.

Dean was back on his bed, the phone again in his hand, the hour again unreasonable. Desperate, and with thoughts of Sam bloody in a ditch somewhere swirling around in his head, Dean was about ready to call Pastor Jim back and get some much-needed help. But then he heard the familiar growl of the Impala. John was back. Dean wasn't sure what to do with himself then, so he didn't move.

Dean heard the familiar two short knocks, one long knock, and two more short ones. He hesitated for a moment, but then got up to open the door for his dad.

John walked in carrying his usual duffel and looking all beat to hell. He always looked torn up after a hunt, but this time he looked especially worn out. November did that to him. But when he looked at Dean his expression softened. "Dean."

"Hi, Dad," Dean said stiffly, but John didn't notice, as tired as he was.

John pulled Dean in for a tight hug, happy to be back with his boy, and then looked around. "Where's Sammy?"

Dean's stomach dropped. His ears got hot. He knew this moment was coming, but then it was _here_.

"Dean?" John pulled away and held his son at arm's length.

"Sam, uh, he got mad at me, and when I went out for a minute just to grab something to drink, he sort of … took off."

John's grip on Dean's shoulders tightened. "Say that again."

"I've been looking for him, Dad, and I've called him, but he doesn't want me to find him. I don't know, I thought he'd come back by now. I'm sorry. Sir."

Dean thought John seemed calm. He wasn't immediately screaming and throwing Dean across the room, anyway. "When did this happen?" John asked.

"Friday."

"Friday."

"Yes, sir. Friday."

John, with his grip still firm on Dean's shoulder, moved his son so that his back faced the wall adjacent the door, and then backed him up against it. "You're telling me … your _twelve_-year-old brother has been missing nearly a week because _you_ couldn't keep a close enough eye on him?"

Dean didn't want to just flat-out admit to that without explaining himself, but he knew his dad was building up to something and that he shouldn't rock the boat any more. "Um, yes, sir."

John let go of Dean, who stayed against the wall anyway, and turned his back to him. He put a hand to his mouth, cursing himself, thinking of all the terrible things that could have happened to his youngest boy out in the dark, alone, just as Dean had been doing for days. Then in one smooth motion he spun back around and clocked Dean in the left eye before the kid even had a chance to see it coming.

Dean let out a grumbling kind of sound and sunk to the floor, his hands immediately going up to his injured eye. Both eyes were closed but in the darkness, Dean saw fireworks.

John pulled Dean back to his feet and again pinned him to the wall with a fierce grip. "Look at me."

Dean obeyed the best he could, turning his head to look at his dad, but he couldn't bring himself to open his left eye.

"I said _look at me_," John repeated, taking one hand off Dean's shoulder and then prying Dean's busted eye open.

Another painful exhale escaped Dean's throat and tears involuntarily came out as John aggravated what was already sure to become a brutal shiner. When John let go, Dean kept his eye open the best he could despite the pain and the swelling. His vision was blurry and he saw two Johns talking to him at once, confusing him.

"I give you _one_ job," John said, pulling Dean toward him and then slamming him back against the paper-thin wall. "One responsibility: take care of Sammy. And you can't even handle that."

Dean wanted to argue that he had a hell of a lot more responsibility than that, but of course kept quiet.

"What good are you — how can I trust you to help out on a hunt or do _any_thing if you screw up the _only_ job I assign you."

When Dean remained quiet, John hit him upside the head, but not nearly so kindly as Dean had hit Sam days before. "What do you have to say for yourself, huh?"

Dean didn't know what to say, except, "I'm sorry, sir."

Rage pulsated through John's every limb and when he threw Dean so hard his head hit the ground, John was holding back considerably. "I gotta sometimes wonder why I keep you around." He regretted his words as soon as they escaped him, but his anger was still too much. John knelt down in front of Dean and pulled him up into a sitting position. "Can you blame me, after something like this?"

On the ground, his shirt twisted up in his dad's fist, Dean felt a fear of John like he never had in his life. It was no secret that his dad got rough sometimes, and with Sammy, too, but never like this. After being wasted for days to forget an especially ruthless hunt, sure, it wasn't a surprise if John got irrational. But here he was, sober as a judge, and this time Dean really had messed up, worse than he had since he was a little kid.

"Why did he leave, what did you do to him?" John asked, still holding Dean upright.

"What? Dad, I didn't do anything. He was just … being Sam, I don't know why he left."

"Don't bullshit a bullshitter, Dean!" John yelled in his son's face and throwing him back to the floor. "What did you do?"

"I swear, I didn't do anything," Dean said as he saw his dad's steel-toe boot beginning to rear back. When it came down quickly ready to kick a whole right through his chest, Dean moved just in time so that it only grazed him, but further enraged John. When John reared back again, Dean couldn't help but yelling out the truth. "It was you, Dad! He left because of you! Okay?"

John stopped mid-motion and looked down at Dean as if he thought he didn't hear his son correctly.

Dean took John's pause as his cue to finally explain himself. "He was mad at you, because we had to leave Oklahoma, he had to change schools again."

The look on John's face said Dean's explanation wasn't helping anyone.

"But I defended you," Dean continued, "Dad, I defended you, I told Sammy you were just stressed with it … being the anniversary and all. I thought he understood—."

"Say another word and I _will_ beat your head in," John said, fumes practically rising off of him.

Dean refrained from apologizing again like he felt compelled to, but it didn't matter; John's boot to his chest took any sliver of breath right out of him and left him flailing on the ground, gasping for air. Dean hadn't yet caught a hold of his breath when John pulled him up to his feet and told him to pack up his things. Dean still had to lean forward, his hands on his knees, to get any air in his lungs.

"Do you hear me?" John said with unnecessary force. He grabbed Dean's duffel and tossed it at Dean, who was hardly able to catch it. He ripped Dean's clothes out of the closet, and like he had with Dean before, tossed them on the floor. "Pack your shit, get in the car. Now. That's an order."

When Dean didn't respond, only drawing in short, shaky breaths, John again grabbed his son by the shoulder in a grip strong enough to crack his collarbone. "Dean."

Dean immediately stood straight. "Yes, sir," he said, and attempted to reach down for his clothes, but John kept his hold on him. Dean looked his father in his angry eyes and wasn't sure he should look sorry or tough or determined or _what_. At sixteen years old, which felt more like thirty to him, he knew it was stupid, but Dean honestly felt just plain scared. John finally let go and Dean did not hesitate to roll all his clothes up into a ball, stuff it into his bag, then grab both his and Sammy's guns, and head out to the car.

XXX

"Which way did he go?" John asked upon joining Dean in the Impala.

"The gas station where someone saw Sam is east, so I figure he went that way, but I scoured all those towns for him already."

John looked at Dean for a while as if he was searching for something on him, then tossed him an icepack he'd gotten from the trunk. He turned the car on and AC/DC blared through the speakers. He turned it down, a rare occasion, and started driving east. "Ya know, now that you're getting older, I was thinking about passing this car on down to you," he said almost pleasantly, as if everything that had just happened had only been a bad dream.

Dean looked to his dad, curious about where he was going with that thought, and holding the icepack firmly over his sore eye.

John laughed in a mocking sort of way. "That'll be a long time comin'."

XXX

Dean was ordered to stay in the car; he'd made enough mistakes, letting all of this happen in the first place, and then sending them on a wild goose chase east while Sam was really staying west of Holbrook in Flagstaff, not even a hundred miles out. Dean couldn't help but feel a bit incompetent upon realizing that error, but if he could, John would certainly be there to remind him.

Dean saw Sam sitting on the stoop of the junked out old house he'd apparently been squatting in. He was petting a yellow dog and feeding it scraps out of an old pizza box and smiling this smile like he was the happiest goddamn kid in the world. Dean wasn't sure what made him feel worse, seeing Sam so happy to be away from him and Dad, or the fact that Dad was about to pull Sam out of that happy world so quick his head would spin.

Dean saw John see Sam, but Sam didn't see John or Dean. Sam was unaware, and downright delighted to be sitting outside that shitty house with some mutt. But then Sam did see John, and that grin fell right off his little face. With the engine off and the window rolled down, Dean could make out snippets of his dad and brother's interaction.

John hugged Sam, probably tight enough to make him crunch, and lifted him up, and looked him all over for any signs of hurt, and pushed his hair out of his face and hugged him again. And then he straightened up and asked Sam what the _fuck_ he was thinking running off like that, and told him to get shit his, get in the car.

Sam was immediately upset; he of course knew he'd be found eventually, and be in all kinds of trouble, but the kid really must've been in his own little world in that Flagstaff shack of a house. Sammy clung to the dog and Dean couldn't hear what he said, but his dad's response was, "It's not your damn dog, Sam," and then he grabbed Sam's pizza box, took a scrap out, showed it the dog, and tossed it as far as he could.

The dog nearly tripped over itself chasing after the food.

Dean could tell Sam was starting to cry like some little baby, and after everything Sam had put him through over the last two weeks, he knew he shouldn't feel any sympathy for the kid, but he did. A little. When Sam got up to go after the dog, John pushed him back onto the steps and went into the house. He emerged a minute or two later with Sam's duffel, tossed it at Sam, then grabbed him by the arm. Sam dragged behind John on the way back to Dean and the car and kept looking back. He never got to say goodbye to the dog or anything.

John opened the back door of the Impala on Dean's side and pushed Sam in. The kid sat there for a minute, arms crossed, all indignant and embarrassed that he'd cried.

He intended to be angry with Sam when he finally saw him again, but all Dean felt was relief to have him back. For another week after John got back there'd been no lead to where Sam was, and Dean really thought he might've been dead. The mere thought had been almost deadly to Dean. "Hey, Sammy," he said, and reached back to put a hand on Sam's face where he'd hit him the day Sam ran off. He messed Sam's already messy hair, so glad to have the little geek back. "For the love of God, Sam, you ever do that again, I'll kill you or something, understand?"

Sam chuckled a little. "Yeah."

John got back in the car and started the engine. The music was still low.

Sam looked at his brother curiously. "What happened to your face, Dean? You run into a door or something?"

The shiner John gave Dean had gotten worse over the ensuing days, but over the last several had gotten a bit better, duller in pain and in color. He could've run into a door, got hit with a ball, whatever.

"Did … your face run … into a door?"

Dean's ridiculous comeback didn't exactly beg for a verbal response; Sam's furrowed eyebrows were enough to get his point across.

"Shuddup," Dean said, turning back around in his seat.

John turned to look at his sons, satisfied now that he had them both safely at home in the Impala, with him. "This isn't going to happen again," he said. "Dean, next time I tell you to watch out for Sammy, you're gonna _watch out_ for_ Sam_my. Clear?"

"Yes, sir," Dean said.

"And Sam, you know I'm not gonna tolerate you running off like that again."

"Yes, sir," Sam said.

"Good." John turned the radio up. The three Winchesters drove off, not back to Holbrook, but further west, AC/DC filling up the car, and dust clouding the view behind them.

* * *

**A/N**: Whaddya think? I kinda feel like this seems way melodramatic — sorry if it is, and definitely let me know! Also I know I sort of did a lot of head hopping; I apologize if that was jarring to read.


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